


Neither Water Nor Shade

by suliswrites



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Hate Sex, Masturbation, Polyjuice Potion, Sexual Fantasy, Smut, nefarious use of polyjuice, non-con elements, pensieve sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 03:34:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29503488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suliswrites/pseuds/suliswrites
Summary: Lucius Malfoy finds himself with a new obsession. Hermione Granger finds herself struggling to resist — and questioning whether she truly wants to."It was repulsive. The hours spent. Furiously stroking himself to visions of her. Starting and ending each day in this disgusting ritual exorcism of desire. Spilling his precious seed for such tainted soil. He could not concentrate through the day if he did not partake in it. He could not sleep through the night if he did not partake, yet again. And still, partake as he did, abandon himself to it as he did — nothing would do. No amount of cleansing through the fire would sate it. Still.Nothing but her would do."*Posted for Evil Author Day. A continuation of the original one-shot*
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Lucius Malfoy
Comments: 52
Kudos: 128
Collections: Evil Author Musings





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello readers! I've decided to post this for 'Evil Author Day.' It is a continuation I've been working on of the original one-shot. I have more of it completed but I can't concretely say the timeline on it. For 'The Unforgivables' readers, worry not! The next chapter is in my beta's hands as we speak. 
> 
> Enjoy. - suliswrites

. . .

No other pleasure could erase her from his mind. 

No habitual activity, no cherished vice, would transmute him back to himself. 

Lucius began to wonder if the girl had permanently neutered him. If he would never again find satisfaction in anything, till he had her. 

He poured himself another three fingers of Ogden’s vintage and stood leaning one arm against the mantle, staring into the fire. 

Did he require owning her ecstasy to recover his own? 

The thought of it, of a path forward, was the only solace he’d yet found. 

Being Master over things came so naturally to him. Everything had a price. Some things even wanted to be owned. Delighted to be. 

If he could only break her to his will, he would know himself again. Of this he was certain. If he could only see her, bent over his desk, delirious and keening like a wild animal as he filled her; he would know himself. 

He indulged in that particular image quite often. Thought how the slick, ambrosial proof of her pleasure would stain the papers on his desk, as he forced her leg up to claim her deeper. How her hands would grip, white-knuckled, at the mahogany. Taking all of him. How she’d wear stains of quill ink for weeks, in his memory. 

_Oh, to mark that witch._

The speed at which she’d taken over his thoughts alarmed him. Lucius was a man of carefully bred and strictly enforced self-control. This sudden inability to redirect his thoughts was weakness. Disgrace; disgraceful in ways he wouldn’t even allow himself to think. 

No pure-blooded lady of pedigree had ever roused him thus. No proper witch had ever begun to own _him_ , in thought, craving, and action. Until her. 

It was repulsive. The hours spent. Furiously stroking himself to visions of her. Glamoring harlots to her image and fucking them senseless — though there did not exist a spell that could mimic that brilliant mind in anyone, which made it all so damnably unsatisfying. Then, as if that weren’t enough — the dreams. Starting and ending each day in this disgusting ritual exorcism of desire. Spilling his precious seed for such tainted soil. 

He could not concentrate through the day if he did not partake in it. 

He could not sleep through the night if he did not partake, yet again. 

And still, partake as he did, abandon himself to it as he did — nothing would do. 

No amount of cleansing through the fire would sate it. Still. 

Nothing but her would do. 

. . .

_Keep your head down. Indulge in none of the system’s machinations but what is necessary to facilitate your work. The true work; that which means so much to you._

Hermione wasn’t so consumed by her purpose not to have noticed. That there were many different kinds of stares to be watchful of, particularly in a political snake-pit such as the Ministry. 

Stares of challenge. Stares of alliance. Stares of sycophants. Stares of threat. Stares of fame. Stares of admiration. Stares of disgust. All of these, Hermione received on a weekly basis. 

But a stare of desire - now that, was very different. And, coming from him, highly unexpected. 

She knew men well enough. And all men, no matter their allegiance, their house, were not so different. A stare of that kind was unmistakable. 

After the first incident’s initial shock wore off, she found a victorious sort of thrill take its place. 

_How are the mighty fallen._

She took a cruel joy in thinking what self-flagellation lusting after a mudblood must incur in someone like him. ‘The Noble House of Malfoy.’

After the second incident, triumphant thrill turned to alarm. 

No fleeting fancy, then. A forbidden thirst that even ancestral pure-blooded hellfire could not quench. 

The third time it happened, distant alarm turned to fantasy.

She hadn’t meant for it to. 

Hermione had simply wondered at just what, exactly, he wanted, which led her to picture it. In detail of every sound, taste, and sight. 

And to blush, as her traitorous body actually began to ache at the very thought. 

Then quite suddenly, it became difficult not to picture it. 

She pictured how hate could ignite a pleasure so very different from love. How it could nourish a vast garden of ecstasies, that required neither water nor shade. 

She imagined how giving up control could feel like freedom. 

How obeying a will that rivaled her own could somehow feel like being known and knowing. 

She couldn’t stop the labyrinth of phantasmic visions in their onslaught. 

The handsome sneer that glared down at her as she worked her body into frenzies. Panting whispers of _Yes, Please— Your good girl, Yours—_ to the condemning darkness. Late in the night. So many nights.

Then, when that wasn’t enough, again in the loo during precious work hours, seeking some way to rid herself of the distracting, shameful possession. Which never worked. 

And so, it was then: the fourth time he looked at her with that scorching hunger, that she knew what would eventually happen. 

And when she heard her breath tremble as it left her, standing beside him in that crowded lift, Hermione knew that he knew it too -

That she would fight, defend to the last bastion of her moral resolve, with every ounce of her spirit. 

And that he would break it. One day. When she could no longer resist him. 

He would have her. 

. . .


	2. Sweeter Every Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to the brilliant Elle Morgan Black for her beta help with this chapter.  
> Thank you for reading. Reviews and kudos are greatly appreciated.  
> Enjoy - suliswrites

Days since she stood next to Lucius Malfoy in the Ministry lift: 30.

Days thereafter without fantasizing about being taken against the wall of said lift, by said wizard: 0.

Hours since she lay awake in bed, working herself to a desperate frenzy by picturing it: 14.

Hours since working herself to a muted but no less desperate frenzy by picturing it, while in the Ministry loo on lunch break: 1.5.

. . .

A terse knock sounds at her office door. Hermione keeps her eyes on the document before her, more than slightly put out at being interrupted in her work yet again. She’ll never finish the report on time at this rate. With a glance at the clock, she tries and fails to keep the exasperation from her voice. “Yes?”

Her secretary, Paul, peeks his head in, apprehension clear in his expression. “Ms. Granger, there’s a woman here to see you. She doesn’t have an appointment.”

“Well what’s her business?”

“She won’t tell me, but,” he lowers his voice to a hush, “she’s spouting some nonsense about ‘having something you want?’” Paul clearly finds this unsavory and questionable. He makes a dubious, wide-eyed face, as if silently they would share in condemning it.

Hermione never wishes to share in Paul’s drama, nor does she have time for this. Her grip tightens on the quill in her hand. “Just show her in.”

Paul raises an eyebrow. Apparently this would not have been his choice.

She returns her eyes to the page, finishing writing a paragraph as she hears the lazy click of heels and the closing of her door.

“So you’re Hermione Granger.”

When Hermione looks up, the ‘yes’ on her lips slips away. The woman standing before her desk is abrasively beautiful; that short-circuiting kind of beauty which one somehow must look at and yet almost doesn’t wish to, it’s symmetry is so taxing on the brain. The tall brunette is cloaked in fur, her long-lashed eyes intelligent and twinkling like emeralds.

Most disconcertingly, however, she is wearing the exact expression Crookshanks gets when he’s hidden a mouse for her to find.

Hermione sets down her quill. “Do I know you?”

“No,” The woman smiles, voice tinkling in amusement. “I’m no one the golden gryffindor would deign to speak to. Though I know something of you.”

At this statement that old pricking of danger shoots up the back of Hermione’s neck. Her guard flies up in full force. She speaks her next words with unwavering authority. “Who are you?”

The woman only smiles. Just when Hermione thinks no answer will be given, the witch turns, leisurely starting to circle the office with an inspecting eye, as though considering it for purchase. Fingers trailing the spines of Hermione’s books, she answers without looking at her. “Marcella Miles is my name. Though who I am is far less interesting than who I work for.”

She pauses then, turning her head back over her shoulder to look Hermione in the eye. “The Lord of the Manor.”

The air is sucked from Hermione’s lungs. Fuck. Shit. Fuck.

“Rather a prestigious placement in my field,” Marcella adds, a prideful beam tilting her chin.

 _Placement._ The word sits distastefully in Hermione’s mind. Her pulse has sped with adrenaline, ringing in her ears.

He’s coming for her. It’s happening. He’s on the move.

Attempting to keep her composure, Hermione trades her fear for sarcasm. “Congratulations,” she draws out. “What has that to do with me?”

“Quite a lot _,_ actually,” Marcella replies; a provocative smirk as though it’s some delectable secret shared between best mates. She returns to Hermione’s desk, taking a seat. “You’re in for it, I’ll tell you that much.”

Rising panic makes her patience slip. Hermione draws her wand from her sleeve and points it at Marcella’s chest. “Stop equivocating. Tell me why you’re in my office or I shall remove you from it.”

Eyes widening in mock alarm, Marcella raises her perfectly manicured hands. “ _Easy._ Now I see what he means.” She looks Hermione up and down for a moment before continuing. “He doesn’t know I’m here. I just wanted to meet you in person. See if you live up to his description.”

He didn’t send her. Hermione calms slightly at this but keeps firm hold on her wand.

Looking anything but threatened, Marcella eases back in the chair, crossing her long, stockinged legs. “You see, I’ve been you. Not an exact replica, at first. Glamours only alter so much. He couldn’t quite get me to take on your... ’galvanic fire’...as he put it. Rages like thunder when I don’t speak like you, think like you.” Marcella seems somewhat put out by this.

Hermione’s eyes narrow. The ambiguous puzzle the witch is laying begins to link it’s pieces in Hermione’s mind, but they will not show their image.

“Don’t act so naive, Ms. Granger.” Marcella laughs. “My profession is the oldest in the world.”

Hermione’s stomach flips. Oh Gods. _Oh Gods._ “You mean he — you’re —”

“Very good at my job, just like you. I’ve risen above the rest.”

“The _rest_?” She’s going to vomit.

“Oh yes. A select rotation of us. On call, day and night. Paid handsomely for it, not that that’s surprising. An unusual request though, glamours. He became frustrated with them after a while. Till he found a better way.”

Hermione’s hand is shaking as she lays her wand on the desk, leaning forward. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

Marcella nods. “Not sure how he gets your hair, but he’s brewed plenty to last if he loses his source.” There’s a fascinated gleam in her eye that seems to delight in sharing secrets, however terrible. She continues, almost breathless with interest in her confessions. “I’d never been fucked as another woman before. Your potion tastes like honeyed cider. Sweeter every time.”

Hermione’s vision blurs. She can’t help but picture it: His tall, broad form standing before a fire, offering of the cup. The voracious lust in the darkening silver of his eyes as her body appears before him to do with whatever he wishes, for however long he wishes to. Marcella’s voice shatters the image before she can go further.

“Still, even wearing you, no matter how we try, he's unsatisfied. Apparently, we don’t know how to hate him like you do. We’re not convincing.”

He _wants_ her to hate him?

Hermione’s rapidly increasing hate for him would be far more than convincing.

Blood rushes to her cheeks. She can’t breathe. She cannot look at the woman before her without imagining her wearing her own body, being thoroughly fucked every which way, crying out his name in her voice. The same way she herself cried his name to her bedroom ceiling last night. The way she does every night.

“Oh don’t look so horrified on my account,” Marcella says, misinterpreting. Then her rosy lips take on a wicked grin. She leans in further, lowering her voice. “It’s wonderful; especially with your tight little cunt. You won’t be disappointed, golden girl.”

Hermione can’t decide whether she wants to vomit, find and Aveda the wizard, or return to the loo for another go. It’s shameful and twisted but even this most sickening trespass from him has her aroused. Her unending desire for him frightens her. He’s been violating her body, repeatedly, and still Hermione wants him. What is wrong with her?

She briefly considers driving her wand into her skull. Instead, an unplanned question comes bubbling out her mouth: “What does he make you do...while me?”

At this, Marcella stands, reaching into her coat pocket. “See for yourself.”

She places a glass ampule swirling with purple mist on the desk. A memory.

“I stole it. He keeps them, to watch later.”

Hermione looks up at her. “Why are you telling me this? Giving me this?”

“Because my conscience has finally caught up with me.” Marcella has not tried to make this sound convincing in the least.

“That, and I’d like a change of career. Successful as I may be, I’m tired of the freelance life, managing _picky_ clients,” she gives a pointed glare. “I see myself more suited to a salaried position with growth opportunities. Always fancied myself capable of being a Ministry girl,” she smiles.

“You want me to _hire_ _you_?” A curl falls loose from Hermione’s bun at the force of this exclamation. “You realize under these circumstances that would be illegal. Not to mention completely without merit.”

“So make whatever circumstances you like. You create the rules, write the laws, don’t you? A girl needs to pay the bills, Ms. Granger. And either way you choose...” Marcella taps a red nailed finger lightly to the ampule, “mine _will_ be paid.”

With that she turns and heads for the door, calling over her shoulder. “See you on Monday, Boss.”

. . .


	3. Silhouette

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much thanks to Elle Morgan Black for her wonderful alpha/beta help with this chapter.
> 
> Thank you for reading. Reviews and kudos are greatly appreciated. Enjoy - suliswrites

. . .

Hermione stares at the vial sitting innocently on her desk, taunting in it’s milky sensuality.

She goes to throw it in the bin, holds it above, freezes still.

The thought of the memory getting into anyone else’s hands keeps her from unfurling her fingers and letting it fall. There would be no context of polyjuice potion in this memory. To anyone’s eyes it will be as it looks.

How _does_ it look?

The consequences of such a thing terrify her. Best to keep it. Tuck it away somewhere no one would ever find it. It's the only option. She’ll hide it, and forget it ever existed. Or hide it and confront that loathsome pig; though the idea of facing him sends a jolt of dread shooting through her. Hide it first—deal with him later.

As she makes her way home, she is ever aware of its presence. Every second of every minute, she thinks of it in her bag, pressed between her arm and her ribs.

Her hand is unsteady raising her wand to unlock the door to her flat.

She throws her bag on the sofa, turns from it. Her immediate thought is fear that she was too rough, she might have broken it.

What does it matter if she’s broken it?

The heels come off first. Her ankles are marked with aching red bands where they’ve dug into her skin. All at once the pain of it suddenly arouses her.

Never has her mind mixed pleasure and pain, but suddenly the sting makes her feel alive; awake. She focuses on it, like a frequency she can tune to. She stills, attempting to feel it more keenly.

Does he utilize pain? Does he truss her body up—dole out punishments with the sharp snap of his palm? Does the pale flesh of her bare arse bloom red for him?

Her tea has no taste. She can’t remember even having made it, but there it is, steaming hot and poured mechanically into her favorite cup. She doesn’t hear Crookshanks demanding his supper, forgets he’s even tracing about her legs until he bats at her with an insistent swipe of his paw, drawing blood.

A muttered apology sounds into the room and it must have been her, though she wasn’t aware of speaking. She gets to feeding him.

Within the hour she’s returned to her bag, fished out the vial and set it on the counter.

Hermione stares at it.

It’s not broken. Still swirling. It came from _his_ mind. It’s part of _him._

She has a pensieve. It’s sitting on the shelf in her closet. She could...

No. Hide it as planned. Hide it now.

She swipes it off the counter, rushes to her bedroom, flings open the top drawer of her nightstand and pushes it to the very back, slamming it shut.

There. To be forgotten.

She has no appetite. The moon is rising.

Feeling completely adrift, she begins to undress. She starts to remove her pencil skirt, hating how each clicking apart of the zipper’s teeth makes her think of his hands pulling it down. Soft pressure behind her. Arms slipping around her waist. Fingers at the buttons of her blouse. Slow and precise. His eyes tracking the creamy V of flesh in the mirror as it is revealed to him. An appreciative hiss of breath at her ear.

Standing in her knickers before her mirror she feels disturbingly sexual. A fruit hanging on the vine, so ripe that to leave it unplucked would be an atrocity.

Marcella is one of the most beautiful women she’s ever seen. Lucius Malfoy stands before _Marcella_ , and instead wishes for her. Demands it be only her. Abuses her consent and _makes_ it be only her.

Fury flares at that abuse. That loathsome, _disgusting_ , pathetic excuse for a wizard! How dare he. As though the whole world were his to manipulate at his whim. She envisions slapping him; a hit so hard that his chiseled jaw snaps to the side. Watching his pale cheek in turn bloom red for her.

Hermione can see her nipples hard beneath the lace of her bra, feel the damp, clinging need of the fabric between her thighs. She takes down her hair. It falls across her shoulders, wild and tangled. She imagines his fingers lacing through the tendrils at the nape of her neck. His fist tightening and jerking back tight. A soft gasp leaves her lips.

Meeting her own eyes in the mirror she begins to panic.

Her gaze drifts from her own face to the nightstand behind her.

What’s the harm? Put yourself out of this misery.

No!

She decides she will give no more glances to herself in the mirror. Vanity. Imagination. Useless.

Searching her bookshelf with devoted focus, she unclasps her bra, shimmies out of her knickers. She reaches for the oldest, softest, most enormous t-shirt she owns: a Weird Sisters concert tee worn with use, peppered with tiny holes. Suddenly she feels pleasantly defiant at the selection.

He’d hate this. He’d rip it off.

Stop it, stop it, stop it!

Hastily, she grabs a book for the night off the shelf. She flops back into the plush safety of her bed, nestles beneath the covers. Crookshanks is nowhere to be seen, likely ignoring her in protest of her negligence. She turns out the light, illuminates her wand to read by.

It’s not like anyone would know, if she watched it.

Hermione slams the book open, forcing her eyes to the ink on the page.

The printed words drift through her mind without meaning. She reads the same sentence over four times. Pointless. Fine.

“Nox.”

The book is set upon the nightstand. The covers are thrown over her head. Her eyes are squeezed shut.

But she hasn't gone through the nightly motions. Her clit aches. Her thighs squeeze together against the hungry nothingness between them.

The covers flip back. She huffs in frustration to the dark, empty room.

Trying not to is useless. Either way, she wants him. Either way, he controls her.

So once again, she’s breaking whatever most recent promise of abstinence she’s made to herself. Her fingers slip between her legs and she knows already that she’s sopping.

Hermione closes her eyes, gives in to visions of the same recurring fantasies:

He has her pressed against the wall of the lift. Pinned between him and her escape. His fingers trace her jaw, slowly tilt her head back to look him in the eye.

Eyes still shut, Hermione raises her hand to her throat, holding it there. She imagines it has the strength of his hand, the immovable force of his control. Just holding, the faintest pressure teasing her with the knowledge of his power.

A rush of arousal floods her belly. She imagines him watching her reaction, brow lifting with that terrible satisfied smirk when he sees just how much his domination affects her.

She pictures him inching his other hand up her thigh, disappearing it beneath her skirt. Unhurried. Teasing her the way she knows he would.

Gods, she’s so wet. She starts to rub herself, dip her fingers inside. But it’s not enough. That something—the unexpected, the overwhelming, the energy of another—it isn’t there and she can’t make it be no matter how hard she keeps trying.

Hermione turns her head with a sigh, opening her eyes.

The nightstand fills her vision.

She could hear. She could see.

In a heartbeat Hermione has sprung out of the bed. She flings open the drawer, grabs the vial. It only takes a few moments to retrieve the pensieve and draw the runes.

In the dark of her room the memory seems to pulse with color and light. It looks so alive.

Popping open the stopper, she pours it into the basin.

Before she can question herself again, she leans forward and lowers her face into the liquid.

. . .

Darkness.

Hermione nearly falls over in the disorienting black, searching for some visual reference of place. But it’s sound that grounds her first: the harried puffs of someone out of breath. A woman.

Somewhere near, to her left, she can hear the steady rhythm of trembling air—muffled but constant.

For a brief moment she fears the memory was not a memory at all, but some kind of horrible spell; that she might be trapped in some unimaginable oblivion of dark magic.

But then almost immediately the creak of wood floorboards sounds in the distance and a ribbon of light slices through the black nothing at the swinging open of a door.

The breathing beside her stops dead.

His form is unmistakable, even in mere silhouette. He stands in the frame, hand still resting on the doorknob. Even made of nothing but shadow against light, those broad shoulders can only be his. That impossible, unnerving stillness can only belong to him.

Hermione finds that she, too, has stopped breathing.

The contrasted line of his jaw tilts slowly to the side; she feels a chill prickle down her back.

“Here kitty kitty…”

He pushes the door open wide, light from the hall flooding into the room. She can just make out the outline of a few items of furniture—a dresser, a chair, a table, the edge of a four poster bed. And across the room from her: a mirror, stretching from floor to ceiling, it’s frame gilded in something ostentatious and gleaming.

A casual wave of his hand and candles rush to life around the room. They stand beautiful and flickering on every surface, on sconces that line the walls, on the elaborate chandelier that hangs in the centre over a beautiful, ancient rug atop the hardwood.

“I knew you’d choose this room,” he says, strolling inside to stand at its center, eyes tracking across it, inch by inch.

And now she can see him fully, now she can stare at him as long as she likes, knowing that he neither knows nor can do anything about it. There he is, for her private viewing.

He’s less clothed than she’s ever seen him; only a white dress shirt tucked into dark wool trousers, sleeves rolled up his forearms, the two buttons at his throat loose, tormenting her with the promise of more.

His eyes, catching light, are full of mischief. No, Hermione thinks better of it, not mischief. To call it mischief would be foolish. Danger is the word—the only word—for it. He smiles as his gaze continues to sweep slowly across the room.

In the candlelight, Hermione now knows that the woman he’s seeking stands hiding behind the lush velvet curtain to her left.

From the twitch at the corner of his lips when he spots it, he knows it too.

“I’ll offer you a deal, Ms. Granger: if you make it to that floo, I’ll let you go. If I catch you—you’re _mine._ ”

There’s a long silence. The floo, of course, is on the other end of the room.

Hermione wonders if Marcella will run for it; why she’d want to run for it.

“Though I warn you,” Lucius watches the curtain without blinking, “I’m never gentle with my possessions. I do so enjoy breaking them in.”

Hermione finds herself moving away from Marcella, keeping close to the wall, afraid that he will get too close to her if he comes near. It's only a memory, she reminds herself.

But instead of walking towards the curtain, Lucius paces to the far side of the room, boots sounding across the hardwood toward the floo. As he reaches the wall beside it he leisurely leans back against it, into a cast of shadow.

He raises his wand. The door he entered through flies shut.

No sooner has the boom of the door sounded than Marcella is bursting forth from the curtain and beelining for the floo.

But it is not Marcella. Hermione had almost forgotten the plot of the play she’s come to see. No: it is _her._ Nothing could have prepared her for the strange vertigo of watching herself sprint, curls bouncing, past herself.

Of course, the sprint doesn’t last long, as Lucius bounds from the shadows and captures her in his arms. He is so much stronger, pinning her roughly to the wall with a predatory snarl. Hermione fears for Marcella in that moment, thinks she is about to witness something terrible. Lucius has taken her wrists and wrenched them above her head, his boot kicks her legs apart, and she… is not struggling.

Marcella is _laughing._

Head thrown back, she is giggling with such carefree exhilaration and vitality that Hermione barely recognizes herself.

At the sound, Lucius’ eyes close; he lets out the kind of exaggerated sigh Hermione thought only fourth years could muster. Then he releases his grip on her wrists and steps back, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Do at least _try_ to earn your galleons, Marcella.”

Hermione has her first good look at her then; the way she’s dressed. The similarity to her own clothing is eerie. Does he purchase replicas from her tailors as well? It’s the every-day Ministry wear, or at least what’s beneath her voluminous robes: a navy pencil skirt, sensible heels, white button-down blouse. He hasn’t dressed her in some sort of provocative sheer nonsense, he’s recreated her just as she is.

“Sorry sir,” Marcella attempts to compose herself, “How can I improve?”

“For starters, stop that ridiculous tittering.”

Lucius takes her by the wrists again and whips her around. His hand laces through her hair and Marcella yelps at the pull as he forces her back against his chest.

“This should be betrayal,” he walks her slowly towards the bed, “Of yourself. Of your every value.”

Marcella nods, or tries to, her head craned back so by his grip.

With a brisk shove, Lucius pushes her onto the mattress, then waits, watching from the edge of the bed as she turns over onto her back to look up at him. He takes in the sight of her, her chest rising and falling, and Hermione can see he is undeniably affected. He seems content to simply look at her for a moment, memorizing every detail of the sight before him.

Her trademark curls are a frightful mess, the pencil skirt is riding up on her thighs, the white blouse strains it’s buttons across her breasts, and for all this his eye seems to catch on her lips, and the rosy flush that paints them.

Marcella appears restless under his intense gaze. In response, she lounges deeper into the plush bedspread, reaching her arms above her in a feline stretch with her wrists drawn together; an invitation.

Lucius gives an infinitesimal shake of his head. “You may be the most submissive creature I have ever met.”

She lowers her wrists immediately, offering a tentative smile. “Habit.”

“Even the worst of habits can be broken, with proper training,” a sudden yank of her legs slides her towards him, her hips now on the edge of the mattress. “I require something different from you.”

Marcella blinks up at him, breaths quickening. “I am at your command, sir.”

Lucius steps between her legs and leans over her, bracing his hand on the mattress beside her head. “Oh I know you are, little dove.”

Marcella swallows, hesitates.

His face is mere inches from hers when he whispers his command. “Rage. Fight.” He wraps a wayward curl around his finger. “Use your words.”

Marcella narrows her eyes. Lucius nods.

She pushes against his chest then, beats her fists against his strong frame as if in struggle—but the hits are those of playful whelp, not a cornered beast.

Lucius looks dangerously unamused. His gaze tracks down to her half-hearted hits then back to her face.

 _“Words_...” he reminds in warning.

At this her beating against him increases by increments, and she screws up her face as if in outrage. “You—You—bad, bad man!”

Lucius lowers his head wearily to the crook of her neck against the bed.

Marcellla stills.

From against her shoulder, Hermione hears a muffled, “Your vocabulary leaves much to be desired.”

This snaps Marcella right out of their scene, all attempts at character broken. She weasels out from under him, pushing along her elbows and heels to crawl further back onto the bed, giving him a look of supreme indignation that rivals some of Lucius’ best. “How would she say it, then? I don’t get paid to write scripts, you realize!”

Hermione rather adores her in this moment.

Muscles lacing with tension, Lucius is clearly losing his patience and no doubt his erection. He stalks up the bed after her, pinning her roughly back down.

“Nevermind.” He waves his hand with a quick flick and a scrap of fabric appears, tying itself tight around her mouth in a gag. He takes hold of her chin, “Just do as I say, mm?”

Marcella nods with the fabric taut between her lips, listening dutifully.

Hermione finds herself drawing closer to the bed, eager to hear what he will say.

“Hit me.”

Marcella’s eyebrows knit together.

_“Do as you’re told.”_

The commanding tone of those words is a memory Hermione will replay in her head for days.

Marcella looks genuinely terrified at the prospect of whacking an already frustrated Lucius Malfoy, but equally terrified of disappointing him. Hermione cannot blame her.

After a moment’s more hesitation, Marcella delivers a fair but controlled slap across his cheek. His head doesn’t even flinch at the impact.

He blinks back disappointment. “Harder.”

She does again, trying, but none better.

Some discerning thought narrows his eyes and then suddenly the cold sneer that has haunted Hermione’s fantasies curls in disdain at the corner of his lips. “If I’d have known of your deficiencies in mind and spirit I should have kept you on your knees. Pity that’s all your mouth is good for.”

Marcella’s eyes widen; she cracks a full-forced slap hard across his face.

His head snaps sharply to the side. Hermione hears the echoing sound even above her own gasp.

Immediately, Marcella looks terrified, pressing herself deeper into the duvet in frozen shock, awaiting his reaction.

When he turns his head back to look down at her, Lucius is searing with lust.

He grinds himself against her hips, hissing a breath in through his teeth. “Mm. Much better.”

Before Marcella can say or do anything else he has moved with incredible speed, flipping her onto her knees to the face mirror which encompasses the opposing wall. He holds her eye in that mirror, even as he presses her upper torso down with the broad plane of his palm, forcing her chest and face into the mattress.

Marcella knows the blueprint of their game now, and Hermione can see a glint of pleasure and triumph in her eye as she groans in protest around the gag, attempting to rise with all her might.

He forces her back down, red handmark staining his cheek, exhilarated as he addresses her in the mirror. “Eyes front.”

Hermione can see his erection straining against his trousers. He presses his hips forward with a sinful, slow tease against her arse and Marcella groans around the gag, still following instruction, her eye ever on his in the mirror.

It’s excruciatingly controlled; decadent. Hermione is transfixed. She watches Lucius draw the pencil skirt further up, all the way over the swell of her hips till it’s bunched at her waist.

Then he’s dragging down her knickers, down and down with the hook of his finger, till they are stretched taut around her spread knees. Innocent white cotton every dayers, just like hers.

She’s glistening for him, pink and absolutely soaked.

Lucius inhales the scent of her, brings his hand up, takes his thumb and draws it back and forth, up and down her exposed cleft. Her eyes flutter.

Lucius releases his other hand from her upper back, snaking it around, pulling her up on her palms, opening the buttons of her blouse. Still, the thumb of his other hand, sliding up and down.

The blouse comes loose. He pulls it from her. She lets him, breathing heavily, breasts heaving within the lace of her white bra as she readjusts and replants her hands firmly on the mattress beneath her.

He unclasps her bra, it falls down around her wrists. Hermione has alway felt somewhat insecure about her breasts but seeing them from outside herself she thinks them beautiful, covets the way he looks at them in the mirror, at her painfully aroused nipples, which she imagines him taking in his mouth to pleasure and pain.

He returns his attention to slowly unraveling her, holding her eye in the mirror as he presses a finger, then two, inside of her.

She moans around the thick gag, tries to rock her hips back.

He holds her firmly in place, giving her a look of warning in the mirror.

And Godric spare her, Hermione has to refrain from touching herself as he begins to work her with ruthless precision; his fingers to the knuckle, three now, curling and pounding harder and harder into her dripping cunt.

Marcella’s thighs are quivering, a trickle of sweat is trailing it’s way down her back as she moans, plea-pitched and ragged.

All the while, Hermione’s wide brown eyes on Marcella’s polyjuiced face stare up at him in the reflection.

She groans around the gag, an attempt at a word Hermione can’t quite make out.

Lucius smirks at her. “Need something?” He speeds his ministrations.

The moan of a word sounds louder, and then Hermione hears it:

_—Please—Please—Please_

The sound spurs him and a near manic impulse flares in his eyes. His hand fumbles, frantic, at his trousers, and in an instant he releases himself and drives into her to the hilt.

They cry out in unison, hers a choked garble around the fabric, his a snarl of feral possession.

He holds there unmoving for a moment as they both draw in measured breaths.

After a long, measured moment, Lucius draws slowly back, then snaps his hips forward.

Her eyes blow wide. She seems to brace herself for another but he only holds there, claiming her at her very deepest, making her wait.

Seconds tick by and Hermione can see the agonizing need for movement on her face, how hard she’s trying to resist the urge to struggle against him in pursuit of it.

Hermione watches him smooth his open hand across her skin, starting at her curve of her arse, his firm stroke continuing, ever so slowly, down the dip of her spine. He begins an unhurried, steady pace, never fully withdrawing; thudding into her with shallow pumps of his hips. His hand is so large against her back as it reaches her shoulders, her neck, and still every moment he torments her with those long, languid thrusts.

Lucius’ self control frightens Hermione, the abject certainty in his manipulations. And yet: a sheen of sweat is breaking out across his skin. It is a control he is consciously maintaining through an iron will. His breaths are deep and slow as he views it all in the mirror.

She watches her breasts sway with the rhythm of it, nipples hard and aching. And here his hand has wound around her hair and he pulls taut. Her back arches sharply at the new tension, even as her palms remain planted firmly on the bed.

And then his control is abandoned and he drives into her.

Hermione’s lips part with a gasp.

There is too much detail in seeing the previously only imagined; real and breathing, two moving as one. His grip digging into her hips as he slams her back onto every thrust, the unquestionable strength of him, the force of his movement meeting her flesh. The sound of _her_ _own_ voice choking moans around the gag.

Unthinking, Hermione drifts closer, moves to stand in front of them between the bed and the mirror. She cannot look away from him—the man before her beautiful and terrifying and so very desperate for what he’s taking from her body. A man starved to the point of mania; the pained need so clear across his brow.

From deep in his chest a moan finally escapes his mouth. _“Mine.”_

Then his gaze lifts to seek the mirror, and in the shock of in instant, those cerulean eyes are locked on hers.

Lucius may be looking in the mirror, but for Hermione he is looking at her. All of that power is pouring out of him and into her like a flood.

And she imagines, how can she help it, him truly looking at her as he takes the real her, as she lets herself be taken. With every snap of his hips she swears she can feel it’s impact hot between her thighs.

Then Lucius pulls Marcella by her curls upright onto her knees, her back flush against his chest, one hand at her throat and jaw, redirecting her gaze to the mirror, the other hand snaking across her abdomen to slip between her legs.

His lips brush against her ear. “Let’s hear you come for me, little savage.”

His fingers work her, know her, pulse against her arousal in just the way that undoes her. She’s coming and coming and crying out around the gag.

And he, watching all in the mirror, still looks so utterly haunted with dissatisfaction.

Hermione wants to see him come, needs to see it—to see him lose himself in the completion of this twisted fantasy. She steps closer, watching as he pushes her to the bed and flips her onto her back; his cock still rigid, coated in her cum, and Hermione can barely believe that he shows no sign of slowing.

Lucius gives her no respite, branding kisses down the column of her throat, over her breasts, biting her nipple in a flash a white teeth, seemingly determined to torture her with yet another back-bending orgasm before ever taking his own. He trails his tongue down her abdomen, grips the inside of her thighs and splays them wide, revealing her to him.

She’s shaking, delirious, begging for him—whether to give her a break or never stop, Hermione cannot tell. Lucius meets Marcella's eye with a dark grin, and Hermione holds her breath as he dips his head between her legs—

An avalanche of black shudders in around her.

She is thrown back sputtering, from the pensive, to find herself alone in the all too quiet, too still, dark of her little room. She sits there motionless for a moment, panting.

_“Circe.”_

The ache between her legs is unbearable. She gives in.

Hermione burns for him, works her body with the kind of frenzied movements of a beast. He’s there, at the front of her mind, in vivid sight and sound and smell, looking her in the eye as he takes her, as he tells her— _shows her_ — just who she belongs to.

It’s to that feeling of ownership that she peaks.

Crying out his name, twisting in her sheets, Hermione comes harder than she ever has before.

The very moment that the wave of bliss has ended, the moment her breathing has calmed and she feels the ragged burn in her throat from screaming, Hermione rises, thighs trembling, and watches the memory again.


End file.
